F  463« 

WW 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


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THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS, 
AND  OTHEB   POEMS. 


the 


R  20    333  ' 

! 


BAY  OF   SEVEN  ISLANDS, 


AND  OTHER   TOEMS. 


BT 

JOHN  GREENLEAE  WU11T1EB, 


BOSTON: 
■  lITox.  Mil  11. in   AND   COMPANY. 

New   Yck:    11   East   SeverWnth   Street 


ftfelltoatffc  Pr0A 


aniliiiDflf. 


Copyright,  1883, 
By  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  .* 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  and  Company. 


To 

EDWIN  p.  whiffle; 

ONE   OF   THE    FIRST   TO    WELCOME    MY    EARLIEST   VOLCM, 

I  OrTER  THE  LATEST, 

AS    A    TOKEN    OF    FRIENDSHIP    NEVER    IXTERRCTTED, 

AM)  WHICH  YEARS  HAVE  ONLT  iTKLNoTHEXED. 


STENTS. 


PAGE 

To  H.  P.  8 ■' 

Tin.  \\w   i                                      II 

turn  Wow  .       .       .20 

A   Sr  mmi  i;    l'i  I     !.:   i  U   ; -  I 

Tin.   K-h  i  Tomb  I  >1     Bl  I  EX  •!.:. 34 

3S 

Tin.   Wishing    r.uiix.i; 40 

Tin:   Ml  ^n  '^  (  iiki-  mil 44 

Wiivi    i  m:   Tkavi.ii.k  EJUS    vi    E                      ...  47 

A    (ii:!  i  :                    50 

WiLsoa 

In  Mi  m<>i:y 5f> 

Tin:   1                      mii:  ChUDBSI CO 

Babbi   Imimai.l C3 

\  tiox C3 

Wimi.i:  Hoses G7 

II  vmn 69 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Godspeed  «        •       •        •        .       •  72 

At  Last   .  •       •       .  73 

Our  Country      ■  75 

The  "Story  or  Ida" 81 

Ax  Autograph 82 


To  II.  P.  3. 
From  the  green  Amesbury   hill   which   I 

the  nam.' 
Of  that  half  mythic  ana  iter  <»f  mine 
Who  trod  its  dopes  two  hundred 
Down  the  long  valley  of  the  Merrimao 
Mid.  i  me  and  tin-  river's  month, 

I  like  an  i 

Amon  I  (land's  immemorial  pi 

oing  the  crag  <»n  which  the  >un 
Ii>   lasl    red   arrow.      Many  a   tale  an 
Which  thou  hast  told  or  sung,  1  call  I  i  mind. 
Softening  with  silvery  mist  th  and  hills. 

The  out-thrust  headlands  and  in-reaching  hays 
Of  <>nr  northeastern  coast-line,  trending  \ 
The  Gulf,  midsummi   .  the  chill  blockade 

Of  icebergs  Btranded  at  it-  northern  gate. 

To  thee  the  echoes  of  the  Island  Sound 


10  TO  H.  P.  S. 

Answer  not  vainly,  nor  in  vain  the  moan 

Of  the  South  Breaker  prophesying  storm. 

And  thou  hast  listened,  like  myself,  to  men 

Sea-periled  oft  where  Anticosti  lies 

Like  a  fell  spider  in  its  web  of  fog, 

Or  where  the  Grand    Bank  shallows  with  the 

wrecks 
Of  sunken  fishers ;  and  to  whom  strange  isles 
And  frost-rimmed  bays    and    trading    stations 

seem 
Familiar  as  Great  Neck  and  Kettle  Cove, 
Nubble  and  Boon,  the  common  names  of  home. 

So  let  me  offer  thee  this  lay  of  mine, 

Simple  and  homely,  lacking  much  thy  play 

Of  color  and  of  fancy.     If  its  theme 

And  treatment  seem  to  thee  befitting  youth 

Eather  than  age,  let  this  be  my  excuse : 

It  has  beguiled  some  heavy  hours  and  called 

Some  pleasant  memories  up ;  and,  better  still, 

Occasion  lent  me  for  a  kindly  word 

To  one  who  is  my  neighbor  and  my  friend. 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 


Tin:  skipper  Bailed  out  of  the  harbor  mouth, 
ring  the  apple-bloom  of  the  Sooth 
of  the  Eastern 

In  his  fishii  :    I' 

Handsome  and  brave  and  young  was  he, 
Ami  tlic  maids  <>f  Newbury  Bighed 

Hi>  lessening  white  sail  fall 

Under  the  sea's  bine  walL 

Through    the    Northern    Ghilf   and    the  misty 
screen 

Of  the   isles   of    Mingan   and   Madeleine, 

St.  Paul's  and  Blanc  Sablon, 

The  little  Breeze  sailed  on, 


12  TEE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

Backward  and  forward,  along  the  shore 
Of  lorn  and  desolate  Labrador, 

And  found  at  last  her  way 

To  the  Seven  Islands  Bay. 

The  little  hamlet,  nestling  below 
Great  hills  white  with  lingering  snow, 
With  its  tin-roofed  chapel  stood 
Half  hid  in  the  dwarf  spruce  wood ; 

Green-turfed,  flower-sown,  the  last  outpost 
Of  summer  upon  the  dreary  coast, 

With  its  gardens  small  and  spare, 

Sad  in  the  frosty  air. 

Hard  by  where  the  skipper's  schooner  lay, 
A  fisherman's  cottage  looked  away 

Over  isle  and  bay,  and  behind 

On  mountains  dim-defined. 

And  there  twin  sisters,  fair  and  young, 
Laughed  with  their  stranger  guest,  and  sung 


THE  V>AY  OF  SEVEN  ISLA1  13 

In  their  native  I 

Of  tin.-  old  Provencal  d 

Alike   were   they,    save   the    faint    out  II 

Of  a  sear  on  Sua  id  fine ; 

And    not Ii,    I 

Loved  i  welL 

Both  were  pleasai 

But  the  heart  <>f  the  c  clave  to  one; 

Though  Less  by  his  eye  than  heart 

Be  knew  the  twain  apart 

;      pite  of  alien  race  and  creed, 

Well  did  his  wooio  rguerite  Bp  e  1 1 

And  the  mother's  wrath  was  vain 

As  the  Bister's  jealous  pain. 

Bhrill-tongued  mi 
And  solemn  warning  was  sternly  said 

By  the  black-robed  priest,  whose  word, 
As  law  the  hamlet   heard. 


14  THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

But  half  by  voice  and  half  by  signs 
The  skipper  said,  "  A  warm  sun  shines 

On  the  green-banked  Merrimac ; 

Wait,  watch,  till  I  come  back. 

"And  when  you  see,  from  my  mast  head, 
The  signal  fly  of  a  kerchief  red, 

My  boat  on  the  shore  shall  wait; 

Come,  when  the  night  is  late." 

Ah  !    weighed    with    childhood's     haunts    and 

friends, 
And  all  that  the  home  sky  overbends, 

Did  ever  young  love  fail 

To  turn  the  trembling  scale  ? 

Under  the  night,  on  the  wet  sea  sands, 
Slowly  unclasped  their  plighted  hands: 

One  to  the  cottage  hearth, 

And  one  to  his  sailor's  berth. 

What  was  it  the  parting  lovers  heard  ? 
Nor  leaf,  nor  ripple,  nor  wing  of  bird, 


THE  HAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  15 

But  a  li  althy  tread 

():i  crisp  an 

I>y  the  black  coast-line  of  Labrador; 
And  by  love  an  1  the  north  wind 
Sailed  >  the  Is]  en. 

In  tli  vain 

B  ■•  Mother 

Tl: 

••  <  ro     !  I  IT  mom.  and  hide  : 

Your    door    .-hall    be     bolted!"  the    mother 

While  Suzette,  ill  i 
Watched  the  i 

At  midnight,  down  to  the  waiting  skiff 
She  stole  in  the  sha  I  he  cliff; 

And  out   of  tl:  mouth  ran 

The  schooner  with  maid  and  man. 


16  THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

And  all  night  long,  on  a  restless  bed, 

Her  prayers  to  the  Virgin  Marguerite  said ; 

And  thought  of  her  lover's  pain 

Waiting  for  her  in  vain. 

Did  he  pace  the  sands?   Did  he  pause  to  hear 
The  sound  of  her  light  step  drawing  near? 
And,  as  the  slow  hours  passed, 
Would  he  doubt  her  faith  at  last? 

But  when  she  saw  through  the  misty  pane, 
The  morning  break  on  a  sea  of  rain, 

Could  even  her  love  avail 

To  follow  his  vanished  sail? 

Meantime  the  Breeze,  with  favoring  win$, 
Left  the  rugged  Moisic  hills  behind, 

And  heard  from  an  unseen  shore 

The  falls  of  Manitou  roar. 

On  the  morrow's  morn,    in    the     thick,     gray 

weather 
They  sat  on  the  reeling  deck  together, 


THE  HAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  17 

Lover  and  counterfeit, 
Oi'  hapless  Ma. 

With  a  lover's  hand,  from  her  forehead  fair 
1 :      moothed  away  her  jet-black  hair. 

What  was  it  his  fund  eyes  mi 
The  Bear  of  the 

Fiercely   he   -limited  :   M  Bear  away 

by  north  for  Seven  I  d<  a  Bay !  n 
The  maiden  wept  and  praj 
But  the  ship  her  helm  obej 

more  the  Bay  of  the  [ales  they  found: 
They  heard  the  bell  of  the  chapel  Bound, 
And  the  chant  of  the  dyir 
In  the  harsh,  wild  Indian  tongue. 

A  feeling  of  mystery,  change,  and  i 

in  all  they  heard   and  all  they  saw: 

Spell-bound  the  hamlet  lay 

In   the   hush  of  its  lonely  bay. 

2 


18  TEE  EAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  cottage  door, 
The  mother  rose  up  from  her  weeping  sore, 

And  with  angry  gestures  met 

The  scared  look  of  Suzette. 

"  Here  is  your  daughter,"  the  skipper  said ; 
"  Give  me  the  one  I  love  instead." 

But  the  woman  sternly  spake ; 

"  Go,  see  if  the  dead  will  wake ! " 

He  looked.     Her  sweet  face  still  and  white 
And  strange  in  the  noonday  taper  light, 

She  lay  on  her  little  bed, 

With  the  cross  at  her  feet  and  head. 

In  a  passion  of  grief  the  strong  man  bent 
Down  to  her  face,  and,  kissing  it,  went 

Back  to  the  waiting  Breeze, 

Back  to  the  mournful  seas. 

Never  again  to  the  Merrimac 

And  Newbury's  homes  that  bark  came  back. 


THE  HAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS.  19 

Whether  her  fate  she  met 
On  tin*  shores  of  Carraquette, 

on,  or  Tracadie,  who  can  >ay  ? 
But  even  yel  I         Bay 

I-  told  tli  •  ghostly  tale 

Of  a   weird,   unspoken   sail, 

Iii  the  pale,  s;t<l  light  <>f  the  Northern  Jay 
i  by  the  blanketed  Montagnais, 
Or  squaw,  in  her  small  kyack, 
( Jrossii]  ;•  the  Bpeotre'a  track. 

On  tin-  deck  a  maiden  wrings  her  hand 
Her  Likeness  kneels    on  the  gray  aids; 

One  in  her  wild  despair, 
And  oiu-  in  the  trance  of  prayer. 

She  flits  before  no  earthly  blast, 

The  red  sign  fluttering  from  her  mast, 

Over   the   solemn   Beas, 

The  ghost   of  the   Schooner  Breeze  ! 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT   FROM  DOVER. 
1662. 

The  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall 
Hardened  to  ice  on  its  rocky  wall, 
As  through    Dover    town,  in    the    chill,    gray 

dawn, 
Three  women  passed,  at  the  cart-tail  drawn ! * 

1  The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  warrant  issued  by  Ma- 
jor Waldron,  of  Dover,  in  1662.  The  Quakers,  as  was 
their  wont,  prophesied  against  him,  and  saw,  as  they  sup- 
posed, the  fulfillment  of  their  prophecy  when,  many  years 
after,  he  was  killed  by  the  Indians. 

To  the  constables  of  Dover,  Hampton,  Salisbury,  Newbury, 
Rowley,  Ipswich,  Weriham,  Lynn,  Boston,  Roxbury,  Bed- 
ham,  and  until  these  vagabond  Quakers  are  carried  out  of 
this  jurisdiction. 

You,  and  every  one  of  you,  are  required,  in  the  King's 
Majesty's  name,  to  take  these  vagabond  Quakers,  Anne 
Colman,  Mary  Tomkins,  and  Alice  Ambrose,  and  make 
them  fast  to  the  cart's  tail,  and  driving  the  cart  through 


IIOW  TUE   WOMEN   WENT  FROM  D0VE1 

Bared  to  die  waist  for  the  north  wind'.-  gTip 
And  keener  sting  of  die  constable's  whip, 
The  blood  that  followed  each  hissing  blow 
Froze  as  it  sprinkled  the  winter  snow. 

Priest  and  ruler,  boy  and  maid 
Followed  the  dismal  cavalcade  ; 

And   from   door   ami    window,   open   thrown. 
Looked    and    WOD  > it.  r   and   QTOne. 

your    several     towns,    to    whip    tli.  Tn    upon     th<ir     | 

backs  not  exo  eding  ten  itripei  tpi 

li   town  ;   and  m  to  oonvej   i  h  tm    1 1  ova  i  >i 
to  constable  till  they  :uv  out  <>f  this  jurisdiction,  a 
will  answer  it  at  your  peril  ;  and  tin-  shall  be  your  war- 
rant. Ki,  H .vim  Wai  in 

This  warrant  WES  executed  only  in  Dove*  and  Hamp- 
ton. At  Salisbury  the  oonttabl  to  obey  it.  \U> 
was  sustained  by  the  town's  people,  who  were  under  the 
influence  of  Major  Robert  Pike,  the  leading  man  in  the 
lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  who  in  advance 
oJ  bis  time,  as  an  advocate  <-f  religions  freedom,  and  an 
opponent  of  ecclesiastical  authority.  Be  had  the  moral 
courage  to  address  an  able  and  manly  letter  to  the  court  at 
Salem,  remonstrating  against  the  witchcraft  b 


22     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

"  God  is  our  witness,"  the  victims  cried, 
"  We  suffer  for  Him  who  for  all  men  died ; 
The  wrong  ye  do  has  been  done  before, 
We  bear  the  stripes  that  the  Master  bore 

"And  thou,  O  Richard  Waldron,  for  whom 
We  hear  the  feet  of  a  coming  doom, 
On  thy  cruel  heart   and   thy    hand   of   wrong 
Vengeance  is  sure,  though  it  tarry  long. 

"In  the  light  of  the  Lord,  a  flame  we  see 
Climb  and  kindle  a  proud  roof -tree; 
And  beneath  it  an  old  man  lying  dead, 
With  stains  of  blood  on  his  hoary  head." 

"  Smite,  Goodman  Hate-Evil !  —  harder  still !  " 
The  magistrate  cried,  "  lay  on  with  a  will ! 
Drive  out  of  their  bodies  the  Father  of  Lies, 
Who  through  them  preaches  and  prophesies !  " 

So  into  the  forest  they  held  their  way, 
By  winding  river  and  frost-rimmed  bay, 


nOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.     23 

I  rept  hills  that  frit  the  beat 

Of  the  winter  Bea  at  their  icy  f 

The   Indian   Irani 

Peered  stealthily  through  the 

And  the  out!  .  — 

M  They  're  witches  l 

At  laeri  a  d 

A  blast  on  hi>  horn  I  (table  hi 

And  the 

k-  Th>  the  wond 

n. 

From  barn  and  woodpile  the  goodman  came  : 
The  goodwife  quitted  her  quilting  frame, 
With  her  child  at    her  I  and,  hobbling 

►w, 
The  grandam  followed  j  ,  gee  the  show. 

Once  more  the  torturing  whip  was  sww 
Onee  more  keen  lashes  the  hare  flesh  Btung, 


24     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

"  Oh,  spare  !  tliey  are  bleeding  !  "  a  little  maid 

cried, 
And  covered  her  face  the  sight  to  hide. 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  crowd  :  "  Good  folks," 
Quoth  the  constable,  busy  counting  the  strokes, 
"  No  pity  to  wretches  like  these  is  due, 
They  have  beaten  the  gospel  black  and  blue !  " 

Then  a  pallid  woman,  in  wild-eyed  fear, 
With  her  wooden  noggin  of  milk  drew  near. 
"  Drink,  poor  hearts  !  "     A  rude  hand  smote 
Her  draught  away  from  a  parching  throat. 

"  Take  heed,"  one    whispered,    "  they  '11    take 

your  cow 
For  fines,  as  they  took  your  horse  and  plow, 
And  the  bed  from  under  you."     "Even  so," 
She  said.  "  They  are  cruel  as  death  I  know." 

Then  on  they  passed,  in  the  waning  day, 
Through  Seabrook  woods,  a  weariful  way; 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.     26 

great  salt  m  and  «and-hills  bai 

And  glimp^w  of  blue  sea  here  and  tl. 

By  the  meeting-house  in  Salisbury  town, 

The  suft'.  id,  in  t!  tndown, 

Bare  for  the  lash  !     ( )  pitying 

Drop  swift  thy  curtain  and  hide  the  Bight  ! 

With  shame  in  hie  eye  and  wrath  on  his  lip 
The  Salisbury  constable  dropped  hie  whi 

"This  warrant   means   murder   foul   and   lvd  : 

I        d  La  he  who  it,"  he  said. 

"Show  me  the  order,  and   meanwhile  strike 

A  Mow  at  your  peril!"  said  Justice  Tike. 
I        all   the   rulers  the  land    po 

t   and   boldest    was   lie,  and    I 

He  scoffed  at  witchcraft  :  the  priest  he  met 
As  man   meets   man  ;  his 

ad  hifl  dark  banding  upright, 

Soul-free,  with  hifl  tare  to  the  morning  light 


26     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

He  read  the  warrant :  "  These  convey 

From  our  precincts ;    at    every    town  on   the 

way 
Give  each  ten  lashes. "  "  God  judge  the  brute  ! 
I  tread  his  order  under  my  foot! 

"  Cut   loose    these    poor    ones    and    let    them 

go; 
Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is    good,  though    backed    by    the 

Crown, 
For  whipping  women  in  Salisbury  town ! " 

The  hearts  of  the  villagers,  half  released 
From  creed  of  terror  and  rule  of  priest, 
By  a  primal  instinct  owned  the  right 
Of  human  pity  in  law's  despite. 

For  ruth  and  chivalry  only  slept, 
His  Saxon  manhood  the  yeoman  kept; 
Quicker  or  slower,  the  same  blood  ran 
In  the  Cavalier  and  the  Puritan. 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER.     27 

The  Quakers  Bank  on  their  knees  in 
And  thanks.     A  last,  low  sunset  blase 
Flashed  out  from  under  a  cloud,  and  shed 
ry  on  each  bowed  head. 

The  tale  is  one  of  an  evil  time, 

When   souls   were   fettered    and    thought   was 

clinic 


And  whisper  above  its  breath 

sham* 
death! 


t     shameful    scourging    and    bonds    and 


What  marvel  thai,  hunted  and  sorely  tried. 
Even  woman  rebuked  and  prophe 
And  soft  words  rarely  answered  back 
The  grim  persuasion  of  whip  and  rs 

If     her     cry     from     the     whippm  and 

jail 

d  sharp  as  the  Kenite's  driven  nail, 
O  woman,  at  ease  in  these  happier  d 
Forbear  to  judge  of  th\  ways! 


28     HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER 

How  much  thy  beautiful  life  may  owe 

To    her    faith    and    courage    thou    canst     not 

know, 
Nor  how  from  the  paths  of  thy  calm  retreat 
She   smoothed   the    thorns   with   her  bleeding 

feet. 


A  SUMMEB  PILGRIMAGE. 

To  kneel  before  dntly  >h. 

To  breathe  the  health  of  ain  divine, 
bathe  wh  i  roers  flow, 

l.-.l  and  turbaned  pi  ^o. 

I  too,  a  palmer,  take,  as  tl 
With  staff  and  BoaDop-ahel]  my  \ 
I  i  i     '..  Erom  burdeni  od  ills, 

be  hills. 

The  yean  are  man} 

I       dreamed-of  wonders  all  athL 

I  Baw  on  Winnepeeaukee  fall 

The  shadow  of  the  mountain  walL 

Ah!  where  are  they  wh  i  with  mo 

The  beautiful  island-studded  a 

And  am  I  he  whose  keen  snrp 

Flashed  out  from  such  unclouded  eyi 


30  .    A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

Still,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns ; 
And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

Again  I  see  the  day  decline 
Along  the  ridged  horizon  line ; 
Touching  the  hill-tops,  as  a  nun 
Her  beaded  rosary,  sinks  the  sun. 
One  lake  lies  golden,  which  shall  soon 
Be  silver  in  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  one  the  crimson  of  the  skies 
And  mountain  purple  multiplies. 

With  the  untroubled  quiet  blends 
The  distance-softened  voice  of  friends; 
The  girl's  light  laugh  no  discord  brings 
To  the  low  song  the  pine-tree  sings; 


A  SUM UFJl  PILGRIMAGE.  31 

And,  not  unwelcome,  cob  haQ 

Of  boyhood  from  his  Bearing  >ail. 
The  human  pi  pell, 

And  Buna  I   -till  is  miracle ! 

Calm  as  the  hour,  methinka  I    [ 
A  worship  o'er  me  steal ; 

atyr-charming  Pan. 

No   cult    of    Nature    -liami. 

-  Belf,  l»ut  that  which  li 
And  shines  through  all  the  veils  i1  . — 

Soul  of  the  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 
Tlu-ir  w  i  rnal  ( rood  I 

And  if,  by  fond  illusion,  here 
The  earth  to  heaven  Beems  drawing  near. 
And  yon  outlying  range  ini ' 
ber  and  serenei 

Scarce  hid  behind  its  topmost  swell. 

The   shining   Mounts   Delecta 

A  dream   may  hint   of  truth  no  I 

Than  the  Bharp  light  of  wakefulo 


32  A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

As  through  her  veil  of  incense  smoke 

Of  old  the  spell-rapt  priestess  spoke, 

More  than  her  heathen  oracle, 

May  not  this  trance  of  sunset  tell 

That  Nature's  forms  of  loveliness 

Their  heavenly  archetypes  confess, 

Fashioned  like  Israel's  ark  alone 

From  patterns  in  the  Mount  made  known? 

A  holier  beauty  overbroods 
These  fair  and  faint  similitudes; 
Yet  not  unblest  is  he  who  sees 
Shadows  of  God's  realities, 
And  knows  beyond  this  masquerade 
Of  shape  and  color,  light  and  shade, 
And  dawn  and  set,  and  wax  and  wane, 
Eternal  verities  remain. 

O  gems  of  sapphire,  granite  set! 

0  hills  that  charmed  horizons  fret ! 

1  know  how  fair  your  moras  can  break, 
In  rosy  light  on  isle  and  lake; 


A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE, 

How  over  wooded   -1  >]><  18  can   run 
The  noonday  play  of  cloud  and  sun, 
And  evening  droop  her  oriflamme 
Of  gold  and  red  in  .-till   Asqnam. 

The  rammer  moonfl  may  round  ag  dn, 
And  i  these  bills  profane ; 

These  Bunseta  waste  on  racai 
The  layish  splendor  of  tin 
Fashion  and  folly,  misplaced  hei 
h  for  their  natural  atmosph*  I 
And  traveled  pride  the  ontlo 
Of  lesser  heights  than  M  »rn: 

Bat   lei    me  dream   that   hill  and 
Of  unseen  beauty  prophe 
And  in  these  tinted  lakes  behold 
The  trailing  of  the  raiment  fold 

Of  that  which,  .still  eluding  _ 
Allures  to  upward-tending 
Whose   footprints  make,   wherever  found, 
Our  common  earth  a  holy  ground. 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE. 

A  drear  and  desolate  shore! 
Where  no  tree  unfolds  its  leaves, 
And  never  the  spring  wind  weaves 
Green  grass  for  the  hunter's  tread; 
A  land  forsaken  and  dead, 
Where  the  ghostly  icebergs  go 
And  come  with  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  waters  of  Bradore! 

A  wanderer,  from  a  land 

By  summer  breezes  fanned, 

Looked  round  him,  awed,  subdued, 

By  the  dreadful  solitude, 

Hearing  alone  the  cry 

Of  sea-birds  clanging  by, 

The  crash  and  grind  of  the  floe, 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE.         35 

"Wail  of  wind  and  wash  of  tide. 
M0  wretched  land !  "  he  cried, 
••  L  tnd  of  nil  lands  the  woi 
(i<»d  forsaken  and  cni 
Thy  hould  sh 

The  words  the  Tuscan 
Bead  in  the  Realm  of  W< 
// 

L<>!  at  his  feet  there         1 
A  block  of  smooth  larch  w 
Waif  of  Borne  wandering  wi 
Beside  a  rock-  ive 

Bj   Nature  Ea  bioned  for  a  grave, 
Safe  from  the  ravening  bear 
And  fierce  f<>\\l  of  the  air, 
Wherein  to  rest  was  laid 

A  twenty   summers1   maid. 

Whose  blood  had  equal  share 

Of  the   lands  of  vine  and   snow, 
Half  French,  half  Eskimo. 
In  letters  uneffa 
Upon  the  block  were  tra 


36  THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE. 

The  grief  and  hope  of  man, 
And  thus  the  legend  ran: 

"TPb  loved  her! 
Words  cannot  tell  how  well! 

We  loved  her! 

God  loved  her  ! 
And  called  her  home  to  peace  and  rest. 

We  love  her!'''' 

The  stranger  paused  and  read. 
"  0  winter  land !  "  he  said, 
"  Thy  right  to  be  I  own ; 

God  leaves  thee  not  alone. 

And  if  thy  fierce  winds  blow 

Over  drear  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 

And  at  thy  iron  gates 

The  ghostly  iceberg  waits, 

Thy  homes  and  hearts  are  dear. 

Thy  sorrow  o'er  thy  sacred  dust 

Is  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust ; 
God's  love  and  man's  are  here. 


TI1E  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADOR  37 

And  love  where'er  it  go* 
Makes  its  own  atmosphi 
It-  flowers  of  Paradi 
Take  root  in  the  eternal  ice, 
And  bloom  through  Polar  snoi 


STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM. 

A  cloud,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw 
On  Carniel  prophesying  rain,  began 
To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 

Growing  and  blackening.     Suddenly,  a  flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced  ;  then  a  strong  blast  beat 
Down  the  long  valley's  murmuring  pines,  and 

woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake,  and  broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at  the  mountains'  feet. 

Thunderous  and  vast,  a  fire-veined  darkness 
swept 

Over  the  rough  pine-bearded  Asquam  range  ; 

A  wraith  of  tempest,  wonderful  and  strange, 
From  peak  to  peak  the    cloudy  giant  stepped. 


STORM  OX  LAKE  ASQUAM. 

One  moment,  as  if  challenging  the  Btorm, 
Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  Bentinel 
L  oked    from    his   watch-tower;    then 

irll, 

And  the  wild   rain-drift  I  form. 

And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun. 

Weai  i  hi  through  slant-blown 

tin. 

Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hop 
And.  when  the  tumuli  and  tin 

With  one   foot  on  the  I   one  <>n  land. 

Framing  within  his  ere* 

A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 
Spent    broken    clouds     the     rain 

spanned. 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE. 

Among  the  legends  sung  or  said 

Along  our  rocky  shore, 
The  Wishing  Bridge  of  Marblehead 

May  well  be  sung  once  more. 

An  hundred  years  ago  (so  ran 

The  old-time  story)  all 
Good  wishes  said  above  its  span 

Would,  soon  or  late,  befall. 

If  pure  and  earnest,  never  failed 
The  prayers  of  man  or  maid 

For  him  who  on  the  deep  sea  sailed, 
For  her  at  home  who  stayed. 


THE    WISHING  BRIDGE.  41 

Once  thither  came  two  girls  from  school, 
And  wished  in  childish 

And  one  would  I).-  a  queen  and  ml 
And  one  the  world  would 

Time  passed  ;  with  change  of  hopes  and  I 

And   in   tin-   Belf-sam 

Tw.>  won*  n.  gray  with  middle 

. 

With  wakened  mem 
They  queried  what  ha  I   b  «n  : 
M  A  poor  man's  wife  am  I.  and  • 

•  I   am  a  qa 

"My  realm  a  little  homestead  is, 
Where,  lacking  crown  and  throne, 
I  rule  by  Loving  Bervio 

And  patient  toil  alone." 

The  other  said  :   M  The  ^rcat  world  lies 
B(  yond  me  as  it  laid  ; 


42  THE   WISHING  BRIDGE. 

O'er  love's  and  duty's  boundaries 
My  feet  have  never  strayed. 

"I  see  but  common  sights  of  home, 
Its  common  sounds  I  hear, 
My  widowed  mother's  sick-bed  room 
Sufnceth  for  my  sphere. 

"I  read  to  her  some  pleasant  page 
Of  travel  far  and  wide, 
And  in  a  dreamy  pilgrimage 
We  wander  side  by  side. 

"  And  when,  at  last,  she  falls  asleep, 

My  book  becomes  to  me 
A  magic  glass :  my  watch  I  keep, 
But  all  the  world  I  see. 

"A  farm-wife  queen  your  place  you  fill, 
While  fancy's  privilege 
Is  mine  to  walk  the  earth  at  will, 
Thanks  to  the  Wishing  Bridge." 


THE   WISHING  BRIDGE.  43 

"Nay,  leave  the  Legend  ton  1 1 1» -  truth/' 
The  other  cried,  M  and  - 

God  gr  t"  our  youth 

But  in  Ills  owu  beet  wa 


THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"  All  hail ! "  the  bells  of  Christmas  rang, 
"All  hail!"  the  monks  at  Christmas  sang, 
The  merry  monks  who  kept  with  cheer 
The  gladdest  day  of  all  their  year. 

But  still  apart,  unmoved  thereat, 

A  pious  elder  brother  sat 

Silent,  in  his  accustomed  place, 

With  God's  sweet  peace  upon  his  face. 

"Why  sitt'st  thou  thus?"  his   brethren  cried. 
"It  is  the  blessed  Christmas-tide; 

The  Christmas  lights  are  all  aglow, 

The  sacred  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"Above  our  heads  the  joy-bells   ring, 
Without  the  happy  children  sing, 


THE  MYSTICS  CHRISTMAS.  45 

And  all  God's  creatures  hail  the  morn 

On  which  the  holy  Christ   Was   boml 

with  as  :  do  more  rebuke 
Our  gladni  -  w  ith  thy  quiel   to 
The  gray  monk  answered:     "Keep,  I  | 

j  birthd 

k-  L  '   '  lathen  Yule  I  red 

Where  thn  i 
With  mystery-play  and 
ad  wait-songs  sp 

u  The  blindest  faith  may  ha]  I 
The  Lord  accepts  the  things  we  h: 
And  reverence,  h  m 
May  find  at  last  the  shinis 

"They  needs  must  grope  who  cannot 
The  blade  before  the  car  most 
As  ye  are  feeling  I  have  felt, 

And  where  ye  dwell   I  too  have  dwelt. 


46  THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"But  now,  beyond  the  things  of  sense, 
Beyond  occasions  and  events, 
I  know,  through  God's  exceeding  grace, 
Eelease  from  form  and  time  and  place. 

"I  listen,  from  no  mortal  tongue, 
To  hear  the  song  the  angels  sung; 
And  wait  within  myself  to  know 
The  Christmas  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"The  outward  symbols  disappear 
From  him  whose  inward  sight  is  clear; 
And  small  must  be  the  choice  of  days 
To  him  who  fills  them  all  with  praise! 

"  Keep  while  you  need  it,  brothers  mine, 
With  honest  zeal  your  Christmas  sign, 
But  judge  not  him  who  every  morn 
Feels  in  his  heart  the  Lord  Christ  born ! 


WHATTHB  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNS1  r. 

The  shadows  grow  and  deepen  round  me, 

I  feel  thf  dew-fall  in  the  air ; 
The  muezzin  of  the  darkening  thick 

I  hear  the  night-thrush  call  to  prayer. 

The  evening  wind  is  Bad  with  farewella, 
And  loving  hands  onclasp  from  mil 

Alone    I    go   to    meel    the   dark' 

Across  an  awful  boundary-line. 
Act  from  the  lighted  hearths  behind  me 

I    ]>ass   with   Blow,    reluctant  I 

What  waits  me  in  the  land  of  strain. 
What  nice  shall  smile,  what  voice  shall  gi 

What   space   shall    awe.   what    In;.  blind 

me? 

What  thunder-roll  of  music   Stun? 


48    WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  AT  SUNSET. 

What  vast  processions  sweep  before  me 
Of  shapes  unknown  beneath  the  sun? 

1  shrink  from  unaccustomed  glory, 
I  dread  the  myriad-voiced  strain; 

Give  me  the  unforgotten  faces, 
And  let  my  lost  ones  speak  again. 

He  will  not  chide  my  mortal  yearning 
Who  is  our  Brother  and  our  Friend ; 

In  whose  full  life,  divine  and  human, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  blend. 

Mine  be  the  joy  of  soul-communion, 

The  sense  of  spiritual  strength  renewed, 

The  reverence  for  the  pure  and  holy, 
The  dear  delight  of  doing  good. 

No  fitting  ear  is  mine  to  listen 

An  endless  anthem's  rise  and  fall; 

No  curious  eye  is  mine  to  measure 
The  pearl  gate  and  the  jasper  wall. 


WHAT  THE  TRAVELER  SAID  A  I  !\   49 

For  love  most  11  ■  than  knowledge: 

What  matter  it'  I  never  ku 
Why  Aldebaran'a  star  is  ruddy 

Or  warmer  Shins  whi1  m ! 

ive  my  human  words,  ( )   Father] 
I  go  Thy  larger  truth  to  pi 
Thy  mercy  -hall  transcend  my  Longii 
1   Beek  hut  love,  and  Thou  ...     Loi 

I  go  to  find  my  Lost  and  mourned  for 
Sale  in  Thy  sheltering  goodness  >till, 

And  all  that  hope  and  faith  foreshadow 
Made  perfect  in  Thy  holy  will! 


A  GREETING. 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE'S  SEVENTIETH  ANNIVERSARY,  1882. 

Thrice  welcome  from  the  Land  of  Flowers 

And  golden-fruited  orange  bowers 

To  this  sweet,  green-turfed  June  of  ours! 

To  her  who,  in  our  evil  time, 

Dragged  into  light  the  nation's  crime 

With  strength  beyond  the  strength  of   men, 

And,  mightier  than  their  swords,  her  pen ! 

To  her  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 

To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave ; 

Made  all  his  wrongs  and  sorrows  known, 

And  all  earth's  languages  his  own, — 

North,  South,  and  East  and  West,  made  all 

The  common  air  electrical, 

Until  the  o'ercharged  bolts  of  heaven 

Blazed  down,  and  every  chain  was  riven ! 


A   GREETING.  51 

Welcome  from  each  and  all  to  hex 
Whose  Wooing  of  the  Minister 

the  warm  he  tit   of  the  man 
Beneath  the  creed-bound   Pui ' 
And  fcaughl  the  kinship  of  tin-  1 

Of   man   1>  slow  and   I  I 

To  her  w 

■  life  her  I  .  — 

Whose  G 

Jn  quaint  Sam    i . 
With  el  1  !  Ingland's  fla 

Waifs   from   her  rude   idyllic    I 
Are  racy  a-  the  old 

r     Chaucer  or  Boccaccio  told  : 
To  her  who  I 

And  time,  her  n  ogth  an  I 

Alike  where  warm  Sorrento 
( )    where,  by  birchen-shaded  i&1 
Whose  summer  winds  haw  shivered  o'er 
The  icy  drift  of  Labrador, 
Slic  lifts  to  light  the  priceless  P 
Of  Harpswell's  angel-beckoned  girl! 


52  A   GREETING. 

To  her  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
Be  tributes  of  the  tongue  and  pen; 
Be  honor,  praise,  and  heart-thanks   given, 
The  loves  of  earth,  the  hopes  of   heaven ! 

Ah,  dearer  than  the  praise  that  stirs 
The  air  to-day,  our  love  is  hers ! 
She  needs  no  guaranty  of  fame 
Whose  own  is  linked  with  Freedom's  name. 
Long  ages  after  ours  shall  keep 
Her  memory  living  while  we  sleep ; 
The  waves  that  wash  our  gray  coast  lines, 
The  winds  that  rock  the  Southern  pines, 
Shall  sing  of  her  ;  the  unending  years 
Shall  tell  her  tale  in  unborn  ears. 
And  when,  with  sins  and  follies  past, 
Are  numbered  color-hate  and  caste, 
White,  black,  and  red  shall  own  as  one 
The  noblest  work  by  woman  done. 


wiison.1 

Tur.  lowliesl  born  of  all  tl 
lie  wrung  i V  -in   1 

The  I  claims  ; 

And 
The  bitter  bread  of 

He  fed  bis  boo]  v.  i 

And  Nature,  kindly  pr  n 

To  him  tin.'  fin  it; 

The  powei  -  th  .•  man's  d 

Patience  and  faith  and 
The  close   horizon   round   him   grew, 

Broad  with  great  poasibiliti 

1  Read  at  the  Massachusetts  C'lul>  on  the  seventieth  an- 
-ry  of  the  birthday  of  Vu     I  at  Wilson. 


54  WILSON. 

By  the  low  hearth-fire's  fitful  blaze 
He  read  of  old  heroic  days, 

The  sage's  thought,  the  patriot's  speech ; 
Unhelped,  alone,  himself  he  taught, 
His  school  the  craft  at  which  he  wrought, 

His  lore  the  book  within  his  reach. 

He  felt  his  country's  need;  he   knew 
The  work  her  children  had  to  do ; 

And  when,  at  last,  he  heard  the  call 
In  her  behalf  to  serve  and  dare, 
Beside  his  senatorial  chair 

He  stood  the  unquestioned  peer  of  all. 

Beyond  the  accident  of  birth 

He  proved  his  simple  manhood's  worth; 

Ancestral  pride  and  classic  grace 
Confessed  the  large-brained  artisan, 
So  clear  of  sight,  so  wise  in  plan 

And  counsel,  equal  to  his  place. 

With  glance  intuitive  he  saw 
Through  all  disguise  of  form  and  law, 


R  . 

And  read  nun  like  an  open  book; 
ami  firm,  li«'  never  quail 
Nor  turned  aside  for  threats,  nor  failed 
T<>  do  the  thing  he  nnderti 

How  wise,  how  brave,  li<-  was,  how  well 
He  bore  himself,  t  *  •  1 1 

While  waves  our  flag  o'er  land  and 
No  Mack  thread  in  it-  warp  or  * 

lh-  found  difi 
A  grateful  Nat: 


IN  MEMORY. 

J.  T.  F. 

As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay 
Long  and  sad  farewells  to  say 
Glides  with  smiling  face  away, 

Of  the  sweetness  and  the  zest 
Of  thy  happy  life  possessed 
Thou  hast  left  us  at  thy  best. 

Warm  of  heart  and  clear  of  brain, 
Of  thy  sun-bright  spirit's  wane 
Thou  hast  spared  us  all  the  pain. 

Now  that  thou  hast  gone  away, 
What  is  left  of  one  to  say 
Who  was  open  as  the  day? 


IX  MEMO/:Y.  57 

"What  b  1  r  slum? 

Save   with  kindly 

:  thy  name  beneatb  the 

thou  ai  • 

)   liothin 
Irniand    is  satisfi 

Over  manly  strength  and  worth, 

At  thy  ■  toil,  or  heai 

Flayed  the  lam'  lit  of  mirth, — 

Mirth   that    lit,  hut    iky.  r  bm  I 

All  thy  blame  to  pity  turn 
Hatred  thou  hadst  oerer  learned. 

barah  and  vexing  thi 

At  thy  home-fire  lost  it-  >ti. 
Where  thou  wast  was  a'.  ing. 

.And   thy  perfect   trust   i:i 

Faith   in  man  and  WOmanho 

Chance  and  change  and  time  withstood. 


58  IN  MEMORY. 

Small  respect  for  cant  and  whine, 
Bigot's  zeal  and  hate  malign, 
Had  that  sunny  soul  of  thine. 

But  to  thee  was  duty's  claim 
Sacred,  and  thy  lips  became 
Reverent  with  one  holy  Name. 

Therefore,  on  thy  unknown  way, 
Go  in  God's  peace  !     "We  who  stay 
But  a  little  while  delay. 


Keep  for  us,  O  friend,  where'er 
Thou  art  waiting,  all  that  here 
Made  thy  earthly  presence  dear; 


Something  of  thy  pleasant  past 
On  a  ground  of  wonder  cast, 
In  the  stiller  waters  glassed! 

Keep  the  human  heart  of  thee ; 
Let  the  mortal  only  be 
Clothed  in  immortality. 


ix  mi: mo. 

And  when  fall  our  feet  as  fell 

Thine  upon  the  asphodel, 

Let  thy  old  smile  ofl  well; 

ing   in   a   world   • 
What   we   fondly  dream   in  this, — 
Lovu  is  one  with  holini 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 
H.  W.  L. 

With  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday; 

With  his  books  and  his  pleasant  pictures, 
And  his  household  and  his  kin, 

While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 
From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 
From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 
And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN 

And  Lis  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  hifl  moist  i  w  dim, 

For  he  knew  that  his  country's  children 
Were  ginging  th  him  : 

The  lays  of  hi-  I  morning, 

The  psalms  of  hi-  evening  time, 

Whose  echoes  -hall  float  foi 
On  the  winds  of  every  elii 

All  their  beautiful  eonsolati 

i   forth  like  birds  of  eh 
Came  flocking  back  t<>  his  windo 

And  sang   in  th.  ear. 

Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 

The  music  rose  and  fell 
With  a  joy  akin  t*»  Bads 

And  a  greeting  like   farewell 

With  a  Bense  of  awe  he 
To  the  voices  sweet  and  young; 


62  THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 

The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 
Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderfid  change  to  come, 

He  heard  the  Summoning  Angel, 
Who  calls  God's  children  home! 

And  to  him  in  a  holier  welcome 
Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 

Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master: 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven !  " 


RABBI  ESHMAEL. 

The  Rabbi  Ishmael,  with  i1. 

()l*  the  world  heavy  upon  him,  i  in 

The    Holy   of    II<»lics,    saw   an   awful    I 

With  terrible  eplend  or  filling  all  the  pi 

*•()    Ishmael    Ben    Elisha  !  "    Said   a    voire, 

k*  What    i  thoa?      Wlia:  Qg   is   thy 

choice  ? 
And,  knowing  that  lie  stood  before  the  L 
Within  the  Bhadow  of  the  cherubim, 
Wide-winged   between   the  blinding  light    ami 

him, 
lie  bowed   himself,   and   uttered    not    a   word, 
Bu1  in  the  .silence  of  his  soul  was  prayer: 

"()   thou    Cternal  !      I    am   one   <»f  all. 

And   nothing  ask   that   others  may   not   .share. 

Thou  art    almighty  :   we   art'   weak   and    small, 

And  yet  thy  children:  let  thy  mercy  spare!" 


64  RABBI  ISHMAEL. 

Trembling,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  in  the  place 

Of  the  insufferable  glory,  lo!  a  face 

Of  more  than  mortal  tenderness,  that  bent 

Graciously  down  in  token  of  assent, 

And,   smiling,   vanished!      With    strange    joy 

elate, 
The    wondering    Rabbi    sought    the     temple's 

gate. 
Radiant  as  Moses  from  the  Mount,  he  stood 
And  cried  aloud  unto  the  multitude : 
"  O  Israel,  hear  !     The  Lord  our  God  is  good  ! 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  his  glory  and  his  grace ; 
Beyond  his  judgments  shall  his  love  endure; 
The  mercy  of  the  All  Merciful  is  sure!" 


VALUATION. 

Tin:  old  Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  hie  gate, 
And  hie  neighbor,  the  Deacon,  went  by, 

M  In  spite  of  my  bank  stock  and  real  eel 
You  are  better  off,  I  beacon,  than  I. 

M  We're  both  growing  old,  and  the  end's  draw- 
ing  near, 

Vou  have  [ess  of  this  world  to 
But  in  Heaven's  appraisal  your  SBBCitflj  I  fear, 

"W ill  reckon  ap  than  mine. 

"They  say  I  am  rich,  hut  I  'm  feeling  so  poor, 

I  wish  I  could  swap  with  you  even: 
The    pounds   I  have    lived    for  and    laid    up   in 

store 
For  the  shillings  and  pence  you  have  given." 
5 


66  VALUATION. 

"  "Well,  Squire,"  said  the  Deacon,  with  shrewd 
common  sense, 
While  his  eye  had  a  twinkle  of  fun, 
"  Let  your  pounds  take  the  way  of  my  shillings 
and  pence, 
And  the  thing  can  be  easily  done ! " 


WINTER  ROSES.1 

My  garden  rosea  long  i 

rished  from  I  '-etrewn  walk-  j 

Their  pale,  1V1  smile  no  more 

i  Iks. 

Gone  with  tin1  flower-tune  of  my  li 
Spring's  violets,  rammer's  blooming  pride, 

And    Nature's   winter  and   my  OWD 

.id,  flowi  ode. 

•  might  I  yesterday  have  bod 

To  day,  in  bleak  I  I   semt  r's  noon, 

Come   a 
.   The  rosy   wealth  of  June! 

Bless  the  young  hands  that  culled  the 
And   bless   the  hear;  prompted   it: 

1  In  reply  t<>    ;i  tlowcr  gift  from  Mrs.  Putnam's  school 
unaica  Plain. 


68  WINTER  ROSES. 

If  undeserved  it  comes,  at  least 
It  seems  not  all  unfit. 

Of  old  my  Quaker  ancestors 

Had  gifts  of  forty  stripes  save  one; 

To-day  as  many  roses  crown 
The  gray  head  of  their  son. 

And  with  them,  to  my  fancy's  eye, 
The  fresh-faced  givers  smiling  come, 

And  nine  and  thirty  happy  girls 
Make  glad  a  lonely  room. 

They  bring  the  atmosphere  of  youth; 

The  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago 
Are  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  cheek 

The  airs  of  morning  blow. 

0  buds  of  girlhood,  yet  unblown, 
And  fairer  than  the  gift  ye  chose, 

For  you  may  years  like  leaves  unfold 
The  heart  of  Sharon's  rose! 


HYMN. 

(FOR  THE  AMERICAS   HORTICULTURAL  BOOBY.) 

0  Painteb  of  the  fruits  and  flowei 

We  own  Thy  \ 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  onra 
May  share  the  work  of  'II. 

Apart  from  Thee  we  plant  in  vain 
The   rOOl    and  sow  tfa 

Thy  early  and  Thy  later  rain, 
Thy   BUn  and  dew   we   D 

Our  toil  is  sweet  with  thankfulness, 

Our  burden  is  our  boon ; 
The  curse  of  Earth's  gray  morning  is 

The  blessing  of  its  noon. 


70  HYMN. 

Why  search  the  wide  world  everywhere 
For  Eden's  unknown  ground  ?  — 

That  garden  of  the  primal  pair 
May  nevermore  be  found. 

But,  blest  by  Thee,  our  patient  toil 

May  right  the  ancient  wrong, 
And  give  to  every  clime  and  soil 

The  beauty  lost  so  long. 

Our  homestead  flowers  and  fruited  trees 

May  Eden's  orchard  shame; 
We  taste  the  tempting  sweets  of  these 

Like  Eve,  without  her  blame. 

And,  North  and  South  and  East  and  West 

The  pride  of  every  zone, 
The  fairest,  rarest  and  the  best 

May  all  be  made  our  own. 

Its  earliest  shrines  the  young  world  sought 
In  hill-groves  and  in  bowers, 


HYMN.  71 

The  fittest  offerings  thither  brought 
Were  Thy  own  fruits  and  flowers. 

And  still  with  reverent  hands  we  cull 

Thy  gifts  each  no  wed  ; 

The  good  is  always  beautiful, 

The  beautiful  is  good 


GODSPEED. 

Outbound,  your  bark  awaits   you.     Were  I 
one 
Whose  prayer  availetk  much,  my  wish  should 

be 
Your  favoring  trade-wind  and  consenting  sea. 
By  sail  or  steed  was  never  love  outrun, 
And,  here  or  there,  love  follows  her  in  whom 
All  graces  and  sweet  charities  unite, 
The  old  Greek  beauty  set  in  holier  light ; 
And   her   for   whom    New   England's    byways 

bloom, 
Who  walks  among  us  welcome  as  the  Spring, 
Calling    up    blossoms   where  her   light   feet 

stray. 
God  keep  you  both,  make   beautiful  your 
way, 
Comfort,  console,  and  bless;  and  safely  bring, 
Ere  yet  I  make  upon  a  vaster  sea 
The  unreturning  voyage,  my  friends  to  me. 


AT   LA 
Wheh  on  my  day  of  life  th  is  falling, 

And,    in   tlif    windfl     from     unsunned     B] 

blown, 

«>ut  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  wh  made    my    home    <>f    life 

pleasai 

its  truant  when  it-  wall  • 
( )  L  >ve  Divine,  ( )  I  [elpei  ever  presi  nt. 
Jn-  Thou  my  strength  and  stay] 

Be  near  me  when  all  romme  drif 

Earth,  sky,   home's   pictures,  days  of   shadf 

and  shine, 
And  kindly  fact's  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 


74  AT  LAST. 

I  have  but  Thee,  my  Father!  let  Thy  spirit 
Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold ; 

No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if — my  good  and  ill  unreckoned, 
And  both  forgiven  through    thy    abounding 
grace  — 

I  find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 

Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving 
cease, 
And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green  ex- 
pansions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing, 
I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song, 

And  find  at  last,  beneath  Thy  trees  of  healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long. 


OUB  COUNTRT. 

BEAD   at   WOODSTO  E,   I  "\.\\,   JUL! 

We  give  tliy  □  tta]  day  bo  hope, 

()   Country   of  OUT   love   and    prayer! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  a] 

But   up  in   and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  y< 

By    (  i«'d's    -race   on! \  r   made, 

In  future  task  before  tl. 

Thou   >halt    not    lack   the  old-time  aid. 

The   fathers  sleep,  hut  men   remain 

Afl   Wise,   aB   tine,   and   brave   as   they; 

Why  count  the  Loss  and  nol  in?- 

The  best   i>  that  we  have  to-day. 


76  OUR  COUNTRY. 

Whate'er  of  folly,  shame,  or  crime, 
Within  thy  mighty  bounds  transpires, 

With  speed  defying  space  and  time 
Comes  to  us  on  the  accusing  wires ; 

While  of  thy  wealth  of  noble  deeds, 
Thy  homes  of  peace,  thy  votes  unsold, 

The  love  that  pleads  for  human  needs, 
The  wrong  redressed,  but  half  is  told ! 

We  read  each  felon's  chronicle, 

His  acts,  his  words,  his  gallows-mood ; 

We  know  the  single  sinner  well 
And  not  the  nine  and  ninety  good. 

Yet  if,  on  daily  scandals  fed, 

We  seem  at  times  to  doubt  thy  worth, 
We  know  thee  still,  when  all  is  said, 

The  best  and  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 


OUR  COUNTRY.  11 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropi  •  air, 

To  where   Katahdin's   «  668 

dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds, 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled; 
Alone,  the  rounding  centory  fin 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  til! 

A  refuge  Cor  the  wronged  and  i 
Thy  e  blame 

.  with  them,  thr  i 

Tin*  old  woi  Id's  *■ .  il  ou 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  r  i 
Ami  labor's  Deed  and  breadth  <• 

rum,  church  and   sch 
Thy  am 

Shall  mould  even  them  to  thy  design, 

Making  a  bl  of  the  I> 

And   I".        »iu's  chemistry  combine 

The  alien  elements  of  man. 


78  OUR  COUNTRY. 

The  power  that  broke  their  prison  bar 
And  set  the  dusky  millions  free, 

And  welded  in  the  flame  of  war 
The  Union  fast  to  Liberty, 

Shall  it  not  deal  with  other  ills, 

Redress  the  red  man's  grievance,  break 

The  Circean  cup  which  shames  and  kills, 
And  Labor  full  requital  make? 

Alone  to  such  as  fitly  bear 

Thy  civic  honors  bid  them  fall? 

And  call  thy  daughters  forth  to  share 
The  rights  and  duties  pledged  to  all? 

Give  every  child  his  right  of  school, 
Merge  private  greed  in  public  good, 

And  spare  a  treasury  overfull 

The  tax  upon  a  poor  man's  food? 

No  lack  was  in  thy  primal  stock, 
No  weakling  founders  builded  here; 


OUR  COUNTRY.  79 

Thine  were  die  men  of  Plymouth  B 
The  Huguenot  and  Cavali 

And  they  whose  firm  endurance 
The  freedom  oi  ils  of  m 

Whose  hands,    anstained  with    blood,  main- 
tained 
The  Bwordlees  oommonwealth  i 

And  thine  Bhall  be  the  power  of  all 

To  do  the  work  which  duty  bi 
And  make  the  people's  council  hall 

As  la  ii in--  as  the  1';.  rami 

Well  have  thy  later 

Thy  brave-said  word  a  cent 
Tin-  of  human  brotherhood, 

The  equal  claim  of  white  and  bla 

That  word  still  echoes  round  the  world, 

And  all  who  hear   it   turn   I 
And  read  upon  thy  flag  unfurl 
The  prophecies  of  destiny. 


80  OUR  COUNTRY. 

Thy  great  world-lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  thy  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold, 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee ; 
God  of  our  fathers !  —  make  it  true. 

O  Land  of  lands !  to  thee  we  give 

Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee ! 


THE  «  STORY  OF  IDA." 

Wsabt  of  jangling  nob  stilled, 

The  skc])ti«  hutc  the  din 

Of  clashing  •  weha  of  creed  men  spin 

Round  simple  truth,  tin-    children  i  who 

build 

With  gilded  cards  their  nen  Jerusalem, 
Busy,  with  sacerdotal  tafloi  i 
And  tinsel  lt:iu«1-.  bedizening  holy  thin 

I  turn,  with    L,rlad    and    grateful    heart,  from 

them 

To  tht'  bi  E  the  Florentine 

Immortal  in  her  blameless  maidenhood, 
Beautiful  m  ( lod'a  i  od  ; 

Feeling  thai  lit'.-,  en  n  now.  may  be  divine 
With  love  no  wrong  can  ever  change  to  hate. 
No  Bin  make  Leu  than  alloompaesionate  1 


/ 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

I  write  my  name  as  one, 
On  sands  by  waves  o'errnn 
Or  winter's  frosted  pane, 
Traces  a  record  vain. 

Oblivion's  blankness  claims 
Wiser  and  better  names, 
And  well  my  own  may  pass 
As  from  the  strand  or  glass. 

Wash  on,  O  waves  of  time! 
Melt,  noons,  the  frosty  rime ! 
Welcome  the  shadow  vast, 
The  silence  that  shall  last ! 

When  I  and  all  who  know 
And  love  me  vanish  so, 


AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

What  harm  to  them  or  me 
"Will  the  lost  memory  1 

If  any   word  |   of  mil 
Through  right  of  life  <li 
Remain,  wh  .:   m 
Whose  ban  I 

Why  should  : 

Sit  on  my  \ 

Why  should  v.  man  v] 

The   DO 

I 
lis  b]  ind, 

Haply  in;.  will 

Leave  Borne  I  .    till. 

A  whi  breath 

Of  praise 

\\ 
As  love  J  the  living  much. 


84  AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

Therefore  with  yearnings  vain 
And  fond  I  still  would  fain 
A  kindly  judgment  seek, 
A  tender  thought  bespeak. 

And,  while  my  words  are  read, 
Let  this  at  least  be  said: 
"  Whate'er  his  life's  defeatures, 
He  loved  his  fellow  creatures. 

"If,  of  the  Law's  stone  table, 
To  hold  he  scarce  was  able 
The  first  great  precept  fast, 
He  kept  for  man  the  last. 

"  Through  mortal  lapse  and  dullness 
What  lacks  the  Eternal  Fullness, 
If  still  our  weakness  can 
Love  Him  in  loving  man? 

"Age  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring; 


AN  AUTOGRAPH.  85 

In  human  nature  still 

Ilr  found  move  good  than  ill. 

"  To  all  who  (liimh!  d. 

His  tongue  and  pen  he  offered; 
I  lis  life  waa  not  hu  own. 
Nor  lived  for  self  alone. 

M  Hat. -r  of  din  and  riot 
II.-  lived  iii  davs  onqni 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty) 

Trod   the   hard   way-  of  duty. 

"  He  meant  n<>  wrong  to  any 

He   BOUght    tin-   good   of  many. 
V      knew   both   sin   and   folly, — 
May  God  forgive  him  wholly!" 


